


Overindulge

by DevilOfWire



Series: DevilOfWire's Kinktober 2020 [22]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Cock Slut, Crossdressing, Established Relationship, Feminization, Formalwear, Humor, Kinktober 2020, Large Cock, Light BDSM, M/M, Masochism, Multiple Orgasms, One Shot, Overstimulation, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sadism, Smut, Top Alastor, Wet & Messy, bottom angel dust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:15:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27160309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilOfWire/pseuds/DevilOfWire
Summary: 22. Formal wear | Overstimulation | SadomasochismSeducing the wickedest of already wicked demons is quite the task. But, of course, if there’s anyone who could do it, it would probably be Angel Dust.The real lack of self awareness really helps, all the way up until he’s forced to recognize Alastor for what he truly is: the most powerful, sadistic demon in Hell.And then maybe he regrets his actions enough to repent fully for all his sins. Literally.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Series: DevilOfWire's Kinktober 2020 [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950421
Kudos: 100
Collections: Kinktober 2020





	Overindulge

**Author's Note:**

> **IF YOU ARE UNDER 18 DO _NOT_ READ.**
> 
> Ooh, boy, I am late and this is a lot longer than I expected this dumb fic to be lol! Oh well, I am excited to see what A24 might turn Hazbin Hotel into :D … Whenever that happens lol!

“Hey, hey, hey, what’s shakin’, good lookin’?”

“I believe it would be ‘cookin’’,” heavy air quotes before an even heavier smile returns, “in order to establish a pleasant melodic rhyme, that is!”

“Rhymin’ shmimin’,” the spider demon puffs, waving two of his four hands. “You might be a hundred years old or whatever, but I’m sure you know exactly what I came here for, don’tcha?”

“Don’t I?” Alastor muses, that same creepy grin stuck to his face like a permanent mask. “Hmm... do I?”

Angel Dust chuckles quietly to himself, shutting the door with a tall boot heel and walking in a small curved line to the devil, taking his sweet time all the while. “Sure you do. I’m just as much of a hopeless sinner as you. I mean, sure, I might not have been the one who single-handedly turned this place into the disgusting hellhole that it is, but I suppose I could thank you for that, at least.”

Having finally reached Alastor—who’d been just... standing there by his bed, for some reason, as he often liked to do—Angel reaches one hand down coyly, the rest of him acting like there was absolutely nothing of interest going on, so as to hopefully keep Alastor from figuring him out-

Oh, and he does anyway.

“Yowch! Okay, okay, I get it!” Angel whines, only being somewhat over-dramatic, rather than completely, as he likes.

Because Alastor might not look it in his formal attire and white-toothed grin, but really, he did have quite a bit of physical strength, as well as mystical. Enough to hold Angel’s thin wrist in a grasp near enough to break something, and certain to leave a little purpling bruise afterward.

Still, Alastor doesn’t let go, no matter how much the other demon stamps his feet in pain, complaining constantly.

“Angel,” he says over all the bitching, catching his attention immediately for the rare use of his actual name.

“Y-yes?” he asks, feeling himself far more nervous than he ever liked to. Alastor had a habit of doing that. Probably got off on it quite a bit, honestly.

But Angel’s little jokes in his head do little to steady the anxious dread in his heart, at those wide-eyed, yellowed eyes. Those pin-point pupils, glaring into the very depths of the soul he didn’t have anymore. A wide, curling smile of wolfish teeth, perfectly aligned into a zipper of a grin that communicated nothing of Alastor’s actual emotions.

Yeah, he was creepy. But ever since Charlie barred up his windows and put chains on his doors and threatened to saw off one of those arms he probably didn’t need if he even so much as  _ look _ at a patron or employee, this was the best he got.

Because Alastor wasn’t a patron, nor an employee.

And Charlie, bless her bleeding heart, might be brave, but even she would know that when it came to the practical bored God that was Alastor, she could do nothing.

So, yeah, he’ll put up with the lack of understanding on gentle touches or cute faces.

So long as he gets fucked.

Yeah... that’s what would make him happy.

“You want to have sex with me?”

“Haha,” Angel tries to laugh, but it comes off more as the pure nerve that it is, cringing at his own high voice, “since yesterday, big guy! I mean, you’re not that big—I mean, you are, but not in the body way- oh, okay!”

His line of thinking changes entirely, as he finds himself suddenly pinned face-down on Alastor’s bed—which he totally never needed to sleep on and was merely an attempt to be nice from the staff, Angel bet.

And then he’s covered in pressure and warmth from above, one of his most favourite feelings in the world, letting him melt right into it, eyes closing shut.

Well, there are other things that might make him happier, actually. Like actually getting fucked by the body pinning him down, which goes perfectly still above him. Or drinking. Or any number of drugs. That would be fun.

A thought begins to weasel its way into his mind: white porcelain face, annoying little voice. A promise, a mutual understanding. That he would stop fucking up, get over his addictions no matter the withdrawal that came with that.

That he would really, actually, genuinely, change.

But then he grimaces, shaking his head from the thought, as his better thinking takes over. What a pipe dream that was, how full of shit she is. Even if he did do a one-eighty and fix himself despite the utter lack of consequences if he kept living the way he was—other than a tiny, practically inconceivable chance of being annihilated by an angel and actually dying, which he wouldn’t really mind, anyway, it’s all oblivion after that—as if it would actually mean something.

There was no heaven. And if the actual angels sent from that place to destroy semi-innocent civilians down in Hell were anything to go by, it wasn’t a place he wanted to go, anyway. Even if he ever fucking could.

“Somethin’ break, or what am I waitin’ here for?” Angel asks, inner monologue in the moment’s silence that followed him getting crushed on the bed spiking his courage, almost making him seem legitimately irritated at Hell’s most powerful demon, right on top of him.

Maybe he shouldn’t have done that.

“Oh, no,” Alastor says above him, tone the same patronizing sing-song as always, “I was just... thinking.”

“Somethin’ you don’t do often, I’m guessing.”

Alastor laughs, but it’s always hard to tell what the real feeling is behind it.

But as fingernails more like claws dig into his waist beneath his suit top, Angel guesses that it’s not very good.

“You are a funny one, aren’t you, Angel?”

“Sure, I like to think so...”

“See? Always a quip, or a comeback!” Alastor’s loud voice reverberates through him, the static seeming to fill his very mind with such close proximity. “I would say it were a damning, loathsome quality, if only I didn’t find it so oddly captivating!”

And even as Alastor’s hands slide down, marking the glory trail to the prize of his ass, just as Angel had wanted so badly before, Angel blinks.

Now he’s thinking again, glancing down over his shoulder at the man pinning him down with the entirety of his body.

“Are you... hitting on me, or something?” he asks, slightly quieter than usual, losing that permanent performance amplification to it.

“Well, I am going to be fucking you in just a second, old friend, so I think it par for the course-”

“No,” Angel has the balls to cut him off, biting his lip as he does so. Such dangerous territory he was digging himself into, rapidly, with his own damn shovel. “You  _ were _ hitting on me. You were thinking about me, too, weren’t you? Or something about... about  _ us?” _

“How funny,” Alastor responds after a brief pause, only his silence an indicator of his thoughts, as his voice, movements, remain as precise as ever. “You think just because I like to toy with you sometimes, that I would ever develop legitimate feelings for you? I’m not even sure I’m capable of such a thing, not in the living, nor now; I was diagnosed with psychopathy long ago, after my spree of killings and inevitable capture, post-mortem, you know. Hm, but perhaps then,  _ you _ are simply a narcissis-”

“Oh, shut up with your excuses,” Angel bites back. “And  _ you _ think a person can’t change after centuries of being stuck in a nightmare dimension, especially one they made themselves? You’re full of shit, Alastor, lying to your own self more than anyone else. I know you got feelings in there, just like I do, you just don’t like to show them.

“So why don’t you admit it with me, Ali? ‘Cause I’ve had this feeling now for a while myself, this damn feeling that just won’t leave me alone, that it’s not the sin or the short-lived highs or anything like that actually make this excuse for life worth living, it’s all the sappy shit they talk about. Friends and family, love and all that garbage. Trust me, I hate saying it more than anyone, especially while I could be getting my brains fucked out right now. So, first, what’dya say, Ali? Think you’re ready for all that?”

The air was loud with the silence that follows, absolutely nothing to fill the void in the dead of night in the mostly-empty hotel.

“I’m... I’m not sure,” Alastor finally says, breath hot and ticklish on the back of Angel’s neck. His smile remaining, although a little less wide than usual.

Angel sighs, more than a little disappointed, but understanding. “That’s alright,” he says. “I’m still not really sure about it myself, either. Only figured it out just now, even if my subconscious has been screaming at me about it for months... and Charlie. God-damn Charlie. Has to be right all the time,” he puffs.

“Anyway,” Angel clears his throat as well as the air, wiggling his ass back on the cock behind him, “since you seem to be gettin’ nicer and less evil since we started fucking, what do you say to another one, demon king?”

Alastor doesn’t react again for a moment, Angel’s grin faltering slightly as he thinks this just might be it. Not just the last time he gets fucked for God knows how long, but... the end of something, with Alastor. Not some dumb nonsense like “true love” or anything, certainly not, but... something nice, anyway.

Not just sex, either. The flirting was fun, watching Alastor open up from mere one-sided games to something a little more silly, showing moments of almost-vulnerability as Angel talked to him during the hours he was supposed to be cleaning the hotel.

But that’s enough damn thinking!

“Yes,” comes a familiar voice, freaking finally. Long fingers curl around his hips, sliding beneath the tail coat and to the light pink fluff of his fur. “Let’s do this again, Angel. And many times after, as long as we can.”

Well, Angel hadn’t been expecting something quite so long-term as that already.

But he’s ultimately unable to make a witty line about it, because then his rump is exposed to the open air in one smooth motion. A finger already dives deep between the swells of his round ass to swirl around the soft, sensitive flesh of his hole.

Of course it’s already wet and loose, Alastor chuckles to himself, Angel hearing it and growing hot, even if not visible. They both can imagine easily him in the boredom of his own room, locked up like some Juliet, passing the time by fucking himself full of fingers—and, if you might recall, he has twenty of them, so it’s safe to say there’s plenty of ways of entertaining himself without any sex toys even needed.

But oh, he might have just had a rebirth or whatever, but he must admit, he’s missed the damn sex toys.

But what he’s missed infinitely more, is Alastor’s cock.

So Angel twists his head to breathe fresh air from the side, one eye winking open to stare at the red devil about to absolutely destroy him.

In the best of ways.

“J-just your cock,” he stutters, as though it were his first time, although, obviously, it wasn’t.

Just the concept of it, the way he arches his back, makes his gaping hole squeeze tight before Alastor’s always-watching eyes, makes it obvious that he’s far experienced in this kind of thing.

But Alastor didn’t care. Couldn’t care less, really. Perhaps he might... think, a little more, but he was still a deprived man, at heart.

Took quite the lack of normal human morality to become a nationally wanted serial killer, after all.

So he more than delights in hearing Angel’s pleading, even if they both know it’s quite the tall order, what with Alastor being quite gifted in that department.

Angel’s in over his head, but Alastor is more than willing to provide him with the means for his undoing.

So he frees his cock from his pants with one fast, impressive hand, then goes down on all fours again, lowering his entire body to Angel’s arched back as he lines his leaking cock head to the puffy entrance of his insides, grinning all the while.

And then he thrusts right in.

Not slowly. Not in a way that would let Angel prepare to be bottomed out in one fell swoop, let alone adjust for the minute or two that would more conventionally be expected.

Quickly. With speed and impatience and vigour that one should really anticipate with a demon so unpredictable and conniving as he.

With the ability to easily threaten to end all of existence, and take the life of the literal whore now impaled and writhing on his cock  _ permanently _ like a wave of his hand, of course he would take great enjoyment in then thrusting out while Angel’s still muffling his initial scream, only to pound back in with enough force to bruise bone, if such a thing were possible.

Besides, he knows the enjoyment is not one-sided, as it usually is, with him.

Because Angel loves the pain.

And oh, yes, he most certainly does.

Even as he gasps and whimpers and begins to cry from the cock feeling like it was splitting his entire body open from the bottom, he adores the all-encompassing, mind-numbing feeling of pain and degradation. Not just a little BDSM scene a client might pay to do to him, but something real, passionate, meaningful.

Not just because it let him forget the rest of the world and how shitty his excuse for life was, but because it makes him remember why he should want to live it in the first place. For moments like this, yes, but also, for any moment. The dizzying heights of pleasure that begin to claw from the cock fucking in and out of his guts like a machine, the treacherous depths of pain that that same cock forces him to feel in the same exact moment, so large it felt like it might rearrange his very bones to make room for it.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, no such thing happens. Angel stays whole, and alive, even in the hands of one whose very name could make some faint at the sound of. Being fucked like a mere sex toy, a cum doll, for Alastor to take and use as he pleases, snickering lowly at his cries of pain.

But, truly, there was no cum doll he’d rather fuck. ...  _ Was he doing this right? _

Whatever, he shakes his head, just continuing to drive his hips at a blinding speed in and out of the feminine slut beneath him. He lets his hands do whatever they want, whether that be slithering up the waist of his tux to feel the thin circumference of his waist, the bones of his ribs; into the cleavage bursting from the top, searching through all that useless fluff until he finds a small but hard nipple to tease until Angel moans in a mix of delight and misery; all the way up to yank at the tufts of his feathery hair, slide around the back of his cheek pressed hard into the sheets to insert a couple fingers into his mouth, just to try to shut him up a little.

But despite both of their best efforts to keep the noise complaints down, there’s one particular moment where Angel just can not be quiet.

Once he cums, of course. Which he does, very hard, squeezing around Alastor’s cock like a vice, working to slow one of his thrusts—but then he just fucks even harder to get around the pesky obstacle of his resistance. He practically screams, really, really screams. If Alastor weren’t in the very room, on top of him and burying his cock inside of him, he might think the spider were being murdered, for fuck’s sake.

But it’s just a little road bump, one that Alastor, for the most part, ignores.

Angel’s eyes widen before squeezing shut in agony, trying to reach back only to have his wrists pinned back down to the mattress, then trying to beg and plead with Alastor to “s-stop, p-pl-please stop,” because being so fresh from an orgasm still not entirely over, “i-it hu-urts!”

But Alastor only chuckles.

He asked for this, after all.

And he’s done this before. Fucked him hard and through multiple orgasms until he was sobbing, and yet the slut comes back for more, making jokes about how he wasn’t “really rough enough” last time... somehow. It must mean something.

Not even breaking a sweat, the wolf above him closes his eyes for once in bliss, smile almost breezy as the pleasant feeling of a warm, tight hole squeezing on his cock and a body thrashing under his, washes over him.

He pounds him hard, impossibly hard, into the bed, until it’s squeaking wildly in protest, Angel sounding not too dissimilar with moans giving confusing signals of “m-more” and “st-stop!” Honestly, what in the world was he supposed to get out of a dialogue like that?

So he ignores Angel’s voice for the most part, other than the purely arousing element of it, favouring the language of his body in the way he leans into his touches, trying his best to arch his back until it nearly snaps just to expose a little more of his ass to the demon above him, bucking his hips onto his cock and then grinding his own prick down to dirty the covers.

He’d be cleaning those, later.

Especially as he cums for a second time, less loud, but still certainly enough that it might draw outside attention, somewhere. But they would never even step into the hallway with Alastor’s room, so they were considerably safe, for the moment.

And yet again, as his libido flags as well as his cock, Angel finds himself caught in a tempest of his own body’s refractory period-created torture, filled with pleasure with nowhere to go, having to just endure the cock fucking between his legs. Even as he angles his hips one way, and then the other, trying to get him to slip from his hole, miss, something, it’s no use. Alastor chases him like a true predator, moving with him like a torturous dance, until his strength was sapped completely from his body, leaving him to lie limply on the bed, simply letting himself be fucked like an object.

Then the pleasure comes back once more, like nothing happened. He moans and moans, clawing at the sheets with twice the necessary amount of hands until he rips them to shreds, focusing only on the cock so massive it distends the flat expanse of his belly with every thrust.

Then he cums, maybe from a twist of the nipple, a deep thrust against his prostate which somehow catches him off-guard, or maybe, from nothing at all. Loud, so ear-piercingly loud. Mostly meaningless moans, but sometimes he says a curse, a plead for more or for mercy, sometimes it’s Alastor’s own name.

Then there’s the unbearable torture again, until it becomes suddenly bearable once more. Rinse and repeat.

A constant cycle that’s all Angel’s, as Alastor shows no sign of wear, let alone growing close to orgasm.

Angel doesn’t know how long he’s there—could be half an hour, could be half a day—how many times he orgasms—somewhere in the hundreds, he’s guessing—only knows how hoarse his voice gets, fur slick with sweat, cheek covered in his own drool, his semen gluing his suit to his skin.

His body feels numb, ass and hips and upper thighs without any feeling at all from being slammed literally senseless, the rest of him aching from being forced down for so long, Alastor fucking into his little toy like he had all the time in the world… which he technically does.

But his hole gives him no such sensory mercy. Perhaps, to keep him conscious, his mind makes the feeling a little more bearable, but he can still feel every vein, push and pull, throb and twitch of Alastor’s cock so creamy with his own pre-cum at this point, he might as well have seeded his pussy once and gone in for a second go.

It’s extra hard to count his climaxes because, eventually, they all just sort of meld together. One after the other into the other, until the peaks and valleys are barely recognizable, just a constant state of whited-out bliss, laced with the misery of over-stimulation between it, but leaving his mind so far-gone it was hard to register anything at all, at this point.

That’s why, when Alastor finally cums inside him, he’s surprised.

He feels it, alright. Thinks he just had another orgasm, and perhaps that’s why he finally came, but doubts it.

He looks over his shoulder, and has it confirmed in the ever-grinning face of Alastor’s, eyes shut only for a moment before they re-open, slightly lidded, but still with the same manic look.

Probably just came because he’d finally had his fill, like an Eldritch monster deciding on a whim to spare a single pathetic life, instead of ripping it into oblivion. Just for something to do.

Either way, he feels as that giant cock fills him with a similarly giant quantity of pure seed, enough that he can feel his stomach becoming taut as his guts are filled to the brim with semen. He might almost get turned on again if he’d lost the ability to get hard long, long,  _ long _ ago.

Angel finally lets his body go completely and entirely limp, every muscle breathing in relief, but also shrieking in unholy cramping.

But if anything surprises Angel that night, it’s when Alastor’s hands come down on his body. Not to punish or to tease, but to...

Massage him?

Angel looks back once again, and what he sees astounds him once again.

No more sharp fangs. No crazed eyes.

A closed-mouth smile, so it was still technically a smile, so he got that.

But everything else... wow, Alastor definitely looked a hell of a lot more like an actual mortal immortal being when he wasn’t wearing that damn silly mask.

“Sorry for my selfishness back there, sport. I can only hope doing things like… this, will not be another thing you have to go to rehab for, hm?”

Angel laughs, smiling just the tiniest bit back as he nods, before going totally relaxed under those for-once gentle hands, and passing out.

But his final thought:

He likes that look on Alastor.

It suits him surprisingly well.

**Author's Note:**

> * * *
> 
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> 
> Thankss for reading! I wasn’t expecting to get all moral about this, but that’s just kinda what seemed to happen lol. Ah well, I don’t seem to be capable of writing very dark stuff without some kinda sappy twist. Good thing, bad thing? You decide! Until next time ;D


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